Remind Me to Smile
by Fish-Inton
Summary: Jokerfic. Danielle Keyes is not having the best time - unemployed, bills needing to be paid, the usual - and her uninvited guest bent on causing havoc is not helping matters. Anti-Mary Sue. Post-TDK. AU. ALL CHAPTERS EDITED.
1. I

Disclaimer: I do not own, or pretend to own, anything to do with Batman or The Dark Knight. It remains to be seen whether or not I will accept responsibility for my OCs, as they tend to have a mind of their own.

* * *

**REMIND ME TO SMILE**

**or**

**A PLACE TO REST AND FORGET YOURSELF (IN MY ARMS)**

* * *

**I**

_I've been hoping for a better day, it's a long time coming but I'll wait anyway._  
_Life's a miracle or a foolish tale? I don't know, go ask Shakespeare._

* * *

"Hey, this is Danielle Keyes, calling about the vacancy behind the bar. Mary said to ring today. Is she around? Okay, thanks. No, it's cool I'll hang on." The young woman threw herself on to the well-worn in sofa and idly shuffled through the sheaf of papers sitting on her coffee table while she waited on the phone. "Hi, Mary, it's Danny. I called earlier, but there was no- I'm sorry? The position's been filled? Oh, okay, uhm, thanks for your time." Mary jabbered away down the line. "No problem, I'm sure something will come up. Have a nice day. Yes, you too." She hung up on the last of her potential employers, a disappointed frown setting on her face. "Five calls," she muttered to herself as she separated the papers, one pile for keeping and the other bound for the trash can, being none too gentle about it. "Not one taker." She hissed as she received a deep papercut; it seemed even yesterday's junk mail was against her.

_You are in the shit,_ the voice she loathed to call her inner monologue reminded her, _up to your hips and sinking rapidly._ She couldn't deny what was true; she had been out of employment for the past couple of months, not that she hadn't been trying to get a job. Her savings would keep her going temporarily, but bills needed paying and she had to eat. "Maybe I should go Bohemian?" she suggested aloud. "Smoke, drink, paint, mope around and say 'No!' to shaving." She shook her head at the idea and smiled a little at her own stupidity as she brushed her dirty blonde hair away from her eyes. Something would come up, she was certain; life had a funny sort of way about it, at last minute something always came up.

Danny left the living room and headed for the front door, opening it and picking up the newspaper that had been left on her doorstep; without so much as looking at it, she moved to the kitchen to make herself her usual morning coffee - black, three sugars. She sat at the small table in the kitchen and skimmed through the newspaper; it was no surprise to her that Gotham's Public Enemy number one, Batman, was on the front page, even though the article covered old ground and in the first paragraph admitted that there had been no progress in the manhunt for him. _If there's nothing to say, what makes him so worthy of the front page?_ On page four there was a tiny article accompanied by a small picture of Arkham Asylum from which the infamous Joker had escaped – again – along with three other high risk patients; the people of Gotham were advised not to approach the escapees if they caught sight of them. Danny sighed and flipped to the next page, taking a sip of her coffee, she was fed up with hearing about villains and Batman news in general. She tore out a sheet of coupons for washing powder from page nine and set them down on the table before progressing through the rest of the newspaper on the lookout for more discounts, freebies and, above all, some mildly interesting news.

* * *

Four hours later saw Danielle running from the basement door for the phone, which rang shrilly in the lobby. "Danny Keyes," she answered.

"Hey, Danny, it's Phil!" She instantly recognised his chirpy voice.

"Phil!" she exclaimed, "how's you?"

"Great cheers, _dah_-ling! I don't have long to chat, so are you busy tonight?" he asked, evidently in a rush. _Most likely at work_, she considered after checking the time.

"Not that I'm aware of."

"There's a new nightclub, and it sounds like a riot... aaaand I _really_ want to go." There was more than a hint of a whine in his voice.

"Name?"

"The Underground," Phil supplied.

"Uninformative. Anyone there I'll know?" she questioned further.

"Maybe, not sure; but you need some good old-fashioned cheering up! And I've got no-one to go with otherwise."

"You're going to get me smashed then?"

"Of course!" She laughed at his presumptuous nature.

"What time are we meeting?"

"Babes, I'll come and pick you up! I'll be over around nine-ish, if that sits well with you?"

"Nine's fine."

"Okay, _must_ dash!" Before she could get her 'see you later' in, he had hung up.

* * *

Phil had shown up at Danny's nearer ten o'clock. She threw on her worn leather jacket over her outfit – dark drainpipe jeans, a white shirt and her favourite grey waistcoat, finished off with a dark purple leatherette tie. Phil's clothing, on the other hand, was a flamboyant ensemble of colours, patterns and accessories; she wondered how he managed to pull it off as they drove from Old Gotham, heading Downtown, making smalltalk. They reached The Underground at quarter to eleven, having spent a good fifteen minutes finding somewhere to park, and were relieved to see that the queue outside was not as horrendous as they had led themselves to believe it would be.

In the club by midnight, the pair made a beeline for the nearest bar and indulged in the 'two for one' shots before moving on to their usual poisons; for Danny it was gin and tonic, and for Phil it was Sex on the Beach. Phil tut-tutted at her choice of drink, twiddling the pink umbrella in his glass as he looked down on her.

"You shouldn't be drinking that," he shouted over the music, "unless you're forty-odd!"

"I like it!" she argued, "it's tasty."

He stooped down to her height to refrain from shouting. "It's more mascara thinner than drink, babes." They both laughed. "Ooh! I see Stacey!" he exclaimed, "Dear God, she needs to do something about that nose of hers! I'll come find you in a minute." With that Phil disappeared into the throng of people before her, following a woman whose hair resembled a bush and whose dress fit like a tent. Danny sighed, sipped her drink, and decided to have a wander around the place; the beat of the music pounded through her body as she snaked through the crowd and marvelled at how the sunken dance floor, so full of people, heaved and swayed as though it were in fact one entity. Beams of light flashed, illuminating the crowd in time to the music, and smoke from a machine swirled about the floor. She situated herself in an empty corner seat and, being a bit of an anthropologist, allowed her eyes to wander as she observed the dancers and passers-by.

Suddenly the crowd on the dance floor broke apart, except for one figure, though the music and those at the opposite end of the dancing crowd continued. The figure continued walking into the crowd, squaring up to the men and leering at the women. His lank green hair hung about his face which was sloppily covered in makeup. Before Danny could get a better look at him Phil came running over, seemingly from out of nowhere.

"We've got to go! The Joker's here!" he exclaimed, grabbing her arm in an effort to haul her to the exit. Danny searched the crowd behind her camp friend and spotted the culprit stalking off in the opposite direction from them. She allowed Phil to guide her speedily through the crowds to the winding stairs that led to the streets of Downtown Gotham. He had evidently had a few more drinks while he was off socialising and was a little on the sloshed side, so much so that Danny convinced him to let her get a cab home and made him promise her he would not drive. His office being a ten minute walk or so from where he had parked, he assured her he would wait until he left work before getting the car back. They managed to flag down a couple of taxis and said their goodbyes before each went back to their respective homes.

On the journey, she considered the appearance of the Joker in The Underground. In all honesty she had never gone out of her way to read up on the Joker, but she read The Gotham Times every day and occasionally caught the news on television; she knew what his face looked like, and had read descriptions of him in so many articles that his trademark look had found space in her mind and stored itself away for a rainy day. The makeup was good, but the hair was too green, and the suit was wrong; from what she gathered the Joker wore purple, this guy was in dark blue; and the scars – the infamous Chelsea grin – were not present underneath the makeup.

_Just a wannabe,_ she realised with some distaste as the rain began to hammer on the passenger window.


	2. II

Disclaimer: I do not own, or pretend to own, anything to do with Batman or The Dark Knight. It remains to be seen whether or not I will accept responsibility for my OCs, as they tend to have a mind of their own.

* * *

**REMIND ME TO SMILE**

**or**

**A PLACE TO REST AND FORGET YOURSELF (IN MY ARMS)**

* * *

**II**

_I can't sleep, no, not like I used to. I can't breathe in and out like I need to.  
__What's your vice? You know that mine's the illusion._

* * *

Two sleepless nights had passed since Danielle had been at The Underground; the stress of unemployment and her impending absence of funds looming in the not-too-distant future were beginning to get to her. Although her appetite had waned somewhat she managed to polish off the beef stroganoff she had made for herself, a late dinner at ten o'clock at night. She deposited the dirty plates, pots and pans in the dishwasher before making her way into the living room where she picked up the newspaper and took it with her down to the basement where she had made a living space complete with lounge, bedroom and a study which also acted as a studio; a kitchen and bathroom in the basement were a bit beyond her current budget.

She flopped down into her well-worn leather armchair which looked about ready to collapse in on itself, and was about to open the newspaper to check for jobs in the classifieds but the headline stopped her; it read: 'Joker Back in Gotham – Body Found.' Skimming the article she found that the Joker impostor from The Underground had been found the night before with his face carved to feature a grotesque smile and his throat slit, a Joker card in his pocket. A behavioural analyst interviewed in the article purported that the act was a message from the Joker, letting people know he does not take kindly to look-alikes due to the fact he sees Gotham as his property. _Somebody give that man a gold star,_ she thought with regards to the analyst. _That and the impostor didn't pay a great deal of attention from the neck down, I wouldn't be too happy if my 'fans' couldn't even get the look right,_ she mused further, the ghost of a smile on her face. She skimmed the rest of the article, which recapped the crimes of the Clown Prince of Crime from the year before – most likely so the article actually filled the page – and opinions from the understandably anonymous people of Gotham. Danny sighed. "I guess he's back." Done with the front page, she flipped to the middle of the paper and perused the job vacancy ads, though nothing took her fancy; she had been bought up to be fussy, her father had taught her that she should make decisions based upon what made her happy, and what was the point in a job that she would not enjoy? She considered that if the time came, she would settle for anything as an 'in-between occupation' while she looked for another, more permanent, job.

Overcome by the mental exhaustion borne from her sleepless nights, Danny heaved her lethargic body from the armchair and shuffled tiredly into her basement bedroom, pulling her jeans off and stepping out of them as she went, leaving her in her girl-boxers and vest. She slid underneath the covers and turned out the lights, fidgeting to find a comfortable position before allowing sleep to finally claim her.

* * *

Danny woke with a start in the darkness, momentarily forgetting where she was as she kicked the covers off the bed. She looked at her alarm clock as she ruffled her hair and saw the time was nearing four in the morning, then the noises coming from upstairs permeated her sleep-fogged brain. _What the?_ She sat on the mattress, stone still, and listened; she heard the shuffling of feet and some heavier footfalls pacing the room directly above her – the kitchen – and the unmistakeable sound of the chairs around the kitchen table scraping across the floor.

Her mind raced for a moment before she decided on what she should do about her situation. She dragged herself out of bed and crossed into the living room, only to fall over the coffee table in the total darkness of the basement. Regaining her composure and listening intently to ensure she had not been heard she crept up the stairs, careful to miss the steps that creaked. At the top of the steps, she listened once more. _Two._ _No. Three people. Men,_ she surmised by the sounds of their footfalls, only to be proven right on hearing the two hushed voices talking amongst themselves and the third barking orders occasionally. No matter how hard she tried to make out what was being said, the basement door muffled the sounds too much. Rather than confront the intruders Danny turned the key in the door, locking herself in with a quiet click. Instead of heading back downstairs, she sat against the wall and continued to listen.

A little over an hour later, she heard the footsteps fade to the front of the house; the front door slammed shut. Everything was suddenly very quiet. She decided to wait a little longer, to ensure that there was nobody but her in the house, before unlocking the door and investigating.

_I must look terrifying, _she thought with a snort, _defending my own home in nothing but a pair of girl-boxers and a vest. Hah. Criminals of Gotham, fear me!_A quick sweep of the house revealed that nothing had been stolen, not that she was all that fussed about losing anything from upstairs since everything of value was kept in the basement. The kitchen, however, held a surprise. "The bastards!" she exclaimed aloud when she caught sight of the three used coffee mugs on the kitchen counter. "Coming into my home, drinking my coff-" she stopped her tirade abruptly when she caught sight of what was tucked underneath one of the mugs – a Joker card. Exhaling the breath she hadn't realised she was holding Danny turned away from the table and set about fixing herself a very strong coffee, searching in the breadbin for her cigarettes and lighter.

So it was with a mug of steaming coffee in one hand, the Joker card in the other and a cigarette hanging from her mouth that Danny moved into the living room and sat down in her old armchair. She set the card and coffee on the coffee table and flipped the television on; there on the screen stood Commissioner Gordon, talking about Batman. Irritably she changed the channel only to see a psychiatrist of some sort talking about the Joker, which brought her train of thought around to the card. In all honesty she did not believe for one second that the real Joker had been in her house. To her mind, the men were not even criminals since they hadn't vandalised or stolen anything, more likely some sad guys who just wanted to play the bad-guy in the early hours of the morning in a house that looked deserted.

She flipped the channel once more and settled back into the armchair, taking a long drag from her cigarette, to watch an early morning chat show – a girl who had found a life in prostitution and her mother who just wanted a normal daughter... even though the mother herself led a life of prostitution when she was her daughter's age. _Hypocrites,_ Danny snorted into her coffee, _all for fifteen minutes of fame._She left the living room to get the newspaper from her doorstep. She stooped to pick it up, straightened, and turned to go back into the house, but stopped dead in her tracks. There, tucked into the ivy that trailed across the front of the old house, was another Joker card. She plucked it from the greenery and studied it; another jester, but this one had been given the Chelsea grin that Gotham knew all too well. Beginning to doubt her original notion regarding the intruders she went back into the house and locked the front door behind her, dropping the newspaper and card on the coffee table before moving back into the lobby to call the police.

* * *

She had agreed to hold on the line while she was transferred to someone who was in more of a position to do something about her predicament, and she had waited patiently for twenty minutes. As soon as she mentioned the Joker she was asked to hold while she was transferred once more. Half an hour later somebody finally picked up the phone, listened to her complaint and promptly told her that it was most likely a couple of copycats trying to scare people – apparently there had been several similar incidents – although if it happened again she was advised to call them back, but in the meantime she should exercise caution.

"Gotham PD are useless," she stated to her empty living room after lighting another cigarette. "'Exercise caution,' my arse!" Feeling defeated, she flopped down on the sofa and picked up The Gotham Times, skimming through the pages until her eyes fell upon a list compiled from a phone-in; 'Official Joker sightings in Gotham.' The short list started in the Downtown area then skipped randomly around the city until it landed in Old Gotham, where there had been a couple of very recent sightings. One happened to be a couple of roads away from her house.

Doubts apparently confirmed, Danny picked up one of the Joker cards from the table and studied it. "What were you after?" she questioned aloud as she burnt a hole through its smiling face with her cigarette.


	3. III

Disclaimer: I do not own, or pretend to own, anything to do with Batman or The Dark Knight. It remains to be seen whether or not I will accept responsibility for my OCs, as they tend to have a mind of their own.

Lyrics: 'Remind Me to Smile' – Gary Numan

* * *

**REMIND ME TO SMILE**

**or**

**A PLACE TO REST AND FORGET YOURSELF (IN MY ARMS)**

* * *

**III**

_Reconsider: Fame. I need new reasons.  
This is detention; it's not fun at all._

* * *

He had spent the day wandering around, reabsorbing Gotham's atmosphere and keeping his eyes peeled for a new 'place of residence', though nothing looked as though it would stay empty for the foreseeable future. Too many people were giving him the eye, staring when they thought his attention was elsewhere. _Is it the scars?_ As dusk swept over the city, and with his smudged trademark mask back in place, he took a stroll through the Narrows in order to begin recruiting his new militia of lackeys and thugs, and to dispose of those who were foolish enough to attempt to kill him on sight. He made sure they were all smiling before he left them in the darkness.

_Oh yes,_ he thought, a spring in his step, _bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and back in business. Where's Batboy when I need him?_Later he observed the nightlife of Downtown Gotham, sauntering in the shadows, and he was not impressed by what he saw in the slightest. A man, an ordinary man with an equally ordinary and unmarred face, had taken it upon himself to pose as the Clown Prince of Crime. _Makeup's not bad, but _what_ was he _think_ing with the suit? Blue, off the rail? Far, far, far too ordinary! Where's the Fashion Police when I need them? This man should be shot on sight._ He sighed. "Guess I'll have to do it myself." Before he could strike, the impostor slipped through the doors of a nightclub. _The Underground? Sounds like a blast._ He giggled to himself as he checked his watch; since he had nothing better to do, and he really couldn't let such an unbearably ordinary man steal his thunder, he decided to wait around for a couple of hours... closing time wasn't that far off.

* * *

Face spattered with blood, the Joker slipped from the dark alley and away into the waning night, humming a disjointed tune; he felt worlds better, as though he had done the world a great service, for disposing of the impostor. His plans for Gotham seemed so clear now – he would be the one to bring Batman out of hiding and to force the 'great and good' of the city to their knees. It would be every man for himself, and he would run the entire anarchic show. Gotham was his, and he would make sure everyone knew that.

Not that he made plans of course; it was more a rough idea of an outcome, to his mind anyway.

* * *

He itched to wreak havoc on the city, ached for the chaos, but until he found himself a hideout it would have to wait. He scanned the property pages of The Gotham Times and found one place that looked to be suitable, but its cost was far greater than his budget would allow for. Reflecting on the events before his most recent incarceration, the Joker considered that perhaps burning the remainderof the mob's money was not such a good idea. _But a point needed to be made._ For a moment he relived his pandemic of pandemonium from the year before in his mind, a grotesque half-smile, half-sneer contorting his face.

Having lost interest in the newspaper, the Joker decided he would go house hunting himself – commandeering a place would be far cheaper, and less hassle for him than renting in the long-run. He removed the smudged makeup from his face and slipped into his latest 'disguise'; an old pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a hooded sweater with which to hide his face from the masses. He slipped a couple of his knives into the pockets of his jeans and pulled on a pair of well-worn black boots. He checked himself in the mirror before leaving the run down apartment he had acquired recently; the last tenant having tragically died when his radio fell into the bath, or so it would appear to anyone who became too interested in where the guy had gotten to. After a Hellish night's sleep in Robinson Park, The Joker figured he needed the apartment more than the young man. The wardrobe wasn't too bad a fit either.

The Joker pulled the hood of his sweater up until it covered half of his face and ambled down the street, walking with his back straighter than he usually would in order to remain completely unidentified by the occasional passer-by. In a couple of hours he would have the complete darkness of night on his side, but for now the long shadows cast in the red-orange light of the setting sun would be cover enough. He headed from the lower-East side of Downtown Gotham towards Midtown, passing through Grant Park humming to himself. He did not want a place in Midtown Gotham since that was where he intended to cause some major havoc, there and in some parts of the Downtown area, so headed further North to Monolith Square. He stopped dead in his tracks at the edge of the square and re-evaluated just what he was doing and where he was going. He didn't fancy going any further west if he continued north as it would bring him too close to Arkham, and the surrounding area wasn't exactly a good place to hide out. He found a stone bench and sat down, assuming a pose that suggested he was deep in thought, fingers drumming on his knees. _What do I want?_ he asked himself then compiled a mental list of what he would need from a place. It would have to be a big place, he would need some thugs around all the time so he was ready to strike anywhere at anytime without having to wait for his assisting forces to show up. It was a long shot, but no neighbours would be ideal, he'd had that luxury when he resided in abandoned warehouses, but they were no good in the cooler months. He wanted to live somewhere that offered relative comfort, _and room for a torture chamber, perhaps,_ he mentally added with a stifled giggle.

He rose from the bench with a smile on his face and, armed with his basic checklist, headed further Northeast towards the Sprang River and Uptown Gotham, to find a neighbourhood that nobody would expect the Clown Prince of Crime to reside in. On his way he passed a couple of suitably sizeable places, though glancing through the windows he saw most of them housed families of people who would be missed if he decided to dispose of them. He didn't feel like having to deal with the friends and family who would come looking for them and, ultimately, get the law involved._ Not yet anyway._He crossed the Sprang River, passing more family homes, and headed into Uptown Gotham, still staying on the East side. The further he headed in, the smaller the houses began to get as he neared The Bowery and Crime Alley. He turned right down a side street and followed it until he reached the railway lines, which he crossed. His feet began to ache after three hours of wandering but still he pressed on, noting that he was not far from Cape Carmine. There was more space between the houses in the area he strolled through, and they were _big_ places. Many of them had lights on and people moving around inside, but one place caught his eye.

He crunched up the gravel driveway to get a better look. It was huge. _And dark_, he noted, a flicker of hope briefly lighting his eyes as he looked through one of the windows only to see an empty room, _abandoned?_ The house was symmetrical in design, with three floors. The bricks were old, though that made the place all the more aesthetically appealing to the Joker, and they framed the large oak front door beautifully. The majority of the front of the place was covered with various greenery; ivy, Virginia creeper and Russian vine clung to the walls, and he wished he saw the place a few hours before to experience the autumnal colours of the plants and the bricks mingling in the evening sun. He stepped back from the walls and looked up at the green roof, which was lined with ancient-looking statues of angelic-looking women that gazed down at the driveway.

Before he looked at anything else, he retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and dialled the number for one of the thugs he had recruited. His call was answered after two rings and the Joker gave the man his first orders – to grab a friend and get down to where he was, and to avoid attracting attention while they were at it. He checked the time on the phone display before he put it away – nearly one o'clock in the morning.

* * *

The thugs showed up around an hour after he called them, they would have made it sooner had they not managed to get themselves lost and have to ask a homeless man for directions as they neared The Bowery. Muttering under his breath about the old days and intelligence, the Joker led the men into the house, having picked the lock while he was waiting. He had expected the door to creak something awful but it swung open soundlessly, revealing an enormous lobby and two marble staircases that converged at the upstairs landing. He turned to the men.

"You," he pointed to the larger of the two, "Number One, search this floor." The thug nodded and strode through a doorway to the left, boots clunking on the floor. "And do it _quietly_," the Joker hissed after him. "Number Two," he began, noticing the thug open his mouth to speak, "no, no, I don't need your name. You take the next floor. I'll take the top floor." Instructions issued, he soundlessly followed Number Two up the marble stairs, glad that they would not creak after witnessing how completely graceless the pair were. At the top of the stairs Number Two headed off to the left, following the landing around to the farthest room, tapping the wrought iron balustrade as he went. "Regroup in the lobby in half an hour," the Joker growled, looking for the way to the next floor. Tucked in what would have been a very small room was a black wrought iron spiral staircase. He climbed the steps and stepped out into the attic room and was, for the first time that night, properly surprised.

The rest of the house might have appeared empty, but somebody had definitely taken the time to deck out the topmost floor with some rather nice furnishings. He flipped one of three light switches, casting the room in a dim light, then decided to explore a little. Off to the right of the vast space a comfortable leather sofa and an armchair flanked an old coffee table facing a television, next to a wall of floor to ceiling bookshelves. There was a small room which, on further inspection, turned out to be a bathroom with a new shower, toilet and sink; he played with the light switch as his mind took in everything he was seeing. Done with the switch, he swaggered to the middle of the space where an antique desk and chair sat in front of an enormous window that gave what was probably an impressive view of the garden, but owing to the darkness of the night outside he saw nothing but himself staring back from the glass; he turned his face away from his abhorrent reflection and fixed his attentions on the rest of the room. Another two sofas sat facing the desk and behind them a coffee table had been placed in front of more wrought iron balustrades. Looking over the rail he realised that what he thought was a solid watchtower in the centre of the building was hollow and he could see all the way down to the marble floor of the lobby; he entertained the idea of calling the thugs upstairs to see how fun throwing them over the railing would be, but decided against it as it would not be a quiet activity. A small table and two chairs sat before a large double door flanked by windows which led on to a balcony at the front of the house, where he could see the statues on the roof more clearly – half of them were missing limbs. _I like this place more and more,_ he thought to himself with a chuckle as he went back inside and quietly closed the door. Two folding Chinese silk screens separated a large double bed from the rest of the room. The Joker wagered that he had never seen so many cushions and pillows in his life and was about to dismiss the over-decoration as being totally stupid, but after sitting on the bed and leaning into the embrace of the cushions he was sold.

He checked the time on his phone again, realised that half an hour had passed, and rose from the bed. He moved silently over to the spiral staircase, turned out the light, and descended to the first floor then down the marble stairs to the lobby where the two thugs were waiting for him. He looked at Number Two. "Anything to report?"

"Nothing upstairs except an old bed frame and a ton of empty boxes. Bathroom's clean though, which is weir-"

"Number One?" the Joker cut off Number Two and raised his eyebrow at the other thug, silently daring the man to correct him. When all the guy did was report back dutifully the Joker found himself disappointed.

"Living room's got recent newspapers and kitchen's stocked. Squatters?"

"No... not squatters." He sucked his bottom lip as he thought for a moment. "Squatters wouldn't have a luxury attic." One and Two stared at him, clearly lost, he shook his head. "Never mind. Kitchen's stocked you say?" Number One nodded. "Coffee, gentlemen?"

The criminal mastermind and his lackeys moved into the kitchen. He was fairly certain nobody was going to be in the house for some time, and since the kitchen was out of view around the back of the house he flipped the lights on. He moved fluidly to the kettle and flipped it on before rifling through cupboards in his search for three mugs. The chairs scraped across the tiled floor as the two thugs seated themselves at the small kitchen table. He stopped momentarily as he contemplated whether or not to make all three coffees; he decided to make all three as a sort of message to say 'I give you what you need, when you need it. There is only me.' The thugs made small talk, which he tuned out whilst he followed several trains of thought; he decided he would send a couple of scouts out during the day and the next night, just to see whether or not anyone was actually living there full time. The Joker smiled as he considered what to do with the house; he would have free reign over the whole place, but would definitely allow nobody but himself up in the attic space.

"Uh, could I get a green tea?" The Joker frowned to himself as he stirred a hefty amount of sugar into his coffee. "Too much caffeine makes me anxi-" In a blur of movement he threw his knife at Number Two. It landed in the table, millimetres from the thug's hand.

"I said 'coffee', Number Two, not 'coffee or what_ever_'. Your uh... _hang-ups_," he snickered to himself, "are none of my concern." Thug Two, now considerably paler, retrieved the two coffees from the kitchen unit and hurriedly drank his, even though it was still near boiling. The Joker turned from the kitchen counter and sat down with his coffee, a twisted smile on his face as he savoured the pain Number Two was trying to hide. He fished a Joker card from his inside pocket and began to play with it.

"Okay, _so_," he began, "boys, here's the plan." The thugs gave him their undivided attention then. "This house. I move some of you more_ trustworthy,_ guys in, and you stay upstairs. I stay at the top – an anarchic hierarchy. I am, after all, _top dog_." He giggled. "And this place is my base of operations, if you will. It's out of the way, and it's a reputable area... and at the moment I don't _think_ I want to blow anything around here sky high. But my _wants_ change with the wind, boys, keep that in mind." He said no more, allowing his words to sink in, and finished his coffee. He stood and turned away, aware that the thugs scrambled to follow him out of the kitchen.

"You left your card," thug Number Two called after his retreating form. He turned around and strode purposefully back in, plucking the playing card from the fingers of the now trembling man and placing it on the table, setting one of the coffee mugs on top of it to emphasise that it should stay put.

"A calling card, Number Two," he sighed and held up a hand to silence thug Two, "no, no, don't tell me your name, I don't wanna hear it. Any..._way_, a calling card – a _card_ to say I _called_ –" he gesticulated with one of his knives as he talked down to the slow lackey, "– would be useless if I didn't leave it," he ran his tongue along the scars on the inside of his cheek before adding, "don'tcha think?"

"They'll run a mile when they see it," thug Number One stated, a wry grin on his face and an excited gleam in his eyes. The Joker rolled his eyes and gestured for the men to leave, performing a visual sweep of the rooms they had been in to ensure the goons hadn't left anything incriminating behind before he followed them outside. _Not the sharpest knives in the drawer,_ he thought with regards to the thugs. With the slamming of the front door came an afterthought, he left another card tucked into the ivy by the front door before disappearing into the early morning fog.

"You uhm... need a ride, sir?" Number One asked him while Number Two nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot.

"Why Number One, you are _too kind_!" he exclaimed, disturbing the men with his smile. Number One opened the front passenger door and gestured for him to get in. "I'll be a sitting duck." The Joker shook his head. "No, I'll be in the back. Behind _you_." He nodded to Number Two who swallowed nervously before he nodded his understanding. They each got into the car, and Number One pulled away from the kerb, waiting until he reached the end of the silent street before he switched his headlights on.

"Where to?" asked thug One.

"Oh, uh, drop me at Grant Park."

"Downtown?"

"Yeah. That would be the one."

The thugs spent the journey in terrified silence while the Joker hummed to himself in the back, observing the buildings they passed on the way. _Wayne Tower,_ he thought to himself, _Bruce Wayne. We should have a talk sometime._ His thoughts wandered then, through the streets of Gotham, as he contemplated what to do with himself during the next day. Before he knew it the car pulled up at the Northern entrance of Grant Park. Number One turned in his seat to face the Joker.

"Is here okay?"

"Perfect, Number One." He swabbed the inside of his mouth with his tongue. "Oh and Number Two?" He leaned forward in his seat, placing his razor sharp switchblade at the thug's neck, tapping the skin a couple of times before he drew it savagely across his throat. Arterial spray drenched the windscreen, and Number One could do no more than stare at the Joker. "You failed the interview."


	4. IV

Disclaimer: I do not own, or pretend to own, anything to do with Batman or The Dark Knight. It remains to be seen whether or not I will accept responsibility for my OCs, as they tend to have a mind of their own.

Lyrics: 'Ghosts in my Machine' – Annie Lennox; 'Windmills of Your Mind' – Noel Harrison.

* * *

**REMIND ME TO SMILE**

**or**

**A PLACE TO REST AND FORGET YOURSELF (IN MY ARMS)**

* * *

**IV**

_I think too much, I do too much, I fall too much,_  
_I fail too much, I cry too much, I die too much;_  
_I'm haunted by the ghosts in my machine._

* * *

Danielle Keyes was not usually one to panic, but after finding the Joker playing cards and seeing that he had been sighted in her area she had slowly become more paranoid as the day wore on. She had gone so far as to call Phil to ask whether or not he would let her stay for a couple of days, only to find that he was in France on business and had not left his spare key under the plant pot. She had told him everything that had happened and, while he was concerned for her, he reasoned that the Joker stopping for coffee at her house was a very unlikely event and she probably had absolutely nothing to worry about. She believed him to an extent but still didn't feel completely safe, all alone in her home. Then she worried about the phone bill.

As the night drew in she locked every door and window in the house, double-checked them all, and proceeded to leave several lights on before she locked herself in the basement with the day's newspaper and a cup of coffee. She descended the stairs and turned her MP3 stereo speakers on, selected a track and sat herself on the sofa. She released a long and loud sigh and, after browsing the first few pages of the paper, felt herself beginning to unwind. _Phil's probably right, _she considered, chuckling at how silly she had been to scare herself so much.

* * *

Danny awoke for the second time to the sound of footsteps overhead. Looking down at the newspaper in her lap she noticed she had fallen asleep at page twelve, and that she hadn't touched her coffee. Sure she had not imagined it she rose from the sofa and turned her music off, reminding herself not to leave it on all night again. Her stomach churned anxiously as she strained her ears to listen out for movement upstairs.

Silence.

She could have sworn she heard footsteps and voices on waking. She listened harder. Still nothing. She moved to the stairs and ascended them with the intention of listening through the door. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw that it stood ajar. She had locked it when she came down previously. The panic that had slowly been relinquishing its grip on her returned tenfold and she clutched the banister in fear.

Then she heard the unmistakeable shuffle of a careful foot on the steps behind her, but before she could turn to face the intruder something hit her in the back of the head, hard. Her knees buckled and the world around her went black.

* * *

_Round like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel..._

A park. Brightly coloured climbing frames. The warmth of the sun twinned with a cool breeze. Her father's smiling face as he picks her up and whirls her around in his arms. Running to the slide. The roundabout is her time machine – one spin, when it stops she might be anywhere, anytime. The swings, the rush she feels, believing if she lets go she can fly.

_...never ending or beginning on an ever-spinning reel..._

Uncomfortable in her uniform. She doesn't like boarding school. No crowd to fit into. The sense of being completely alone for being different, for rejecting the idea that money is all. Feeling nauseous walking through the halls lined with the other rich kids – those who flashed Daddy's cash and walked it and talked it like there was no tomorrow. A mix of pity and envy for them, not wanting to be them when their trust funds run dry.

_...like a snowball down a mountain, or a carnival balloon..._

Home doesn't feel such a welcoming place. Arguing with her mother. "I don't _want_ to go to college!" Her mother insisting she will go. She wants her children to go to college, "only poor people don't go," and she is reminded that their family is far from poor. "I'm not good at _anything_." Being told she will have to make herself good at something if she wants to go into the family business. She doesn't want anything to do with it. It doesn't interest her. She tells her mother so.

_...like a carousel that's turning running rings around the moon..._

Dropping out of college. Two years living in Paris. Painting. Drawing. The feel-good rush of finally finding a talent. Returning to Gotham. Her parents insisting such a 'talent' will get her nowhere. Rejecting their so-called society. They refuse to support her. Her mother complaining, "Why couldn't I have a normal daughter?" Her father away, working all the time. Attention lavished on her younger sister, back from school.

_...like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of it's face..._

Her sister, whom she thought could do no wrong in her parents' eyes, back from college. She is arguing with her mother, then later with her father; "But I love him!" The sound of the front door slamming, then silence. Later, her mother announcing her sister would not be coming home.

_...and the world is like an apple whirling silently in space..._

The house. Huge. Empty. Hers. Everybody gone. Clearing out the attic, filled with dread at the prospect of doing the same to the basement. A graphic design job, working from home. Free to do whatever she wants. Everything is new and exciting. A burgeoning social life filled with whimsical characters who come and go – here today, gone tomorrow.

_...like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind..._

* * *

Danny came to with a groggy groan. She felt like she had the hangover from hell. _Was I out last night?_ she wondered as she stretched her arms to relieve some of the tension in her shoulders. At least, she would have stretched if she could actually move her arms. Panic slowly curled its icy fingers around her heart which thudded in her chest, apparently deciding that bailing out was better than sticking around to find out what was in store for her. Her eyes snapped open and her vision slowly became less blurred, mind slowly processing her surroundings; she was in one of the upstairs guest bedrooms, judging by the décor and the amount of dust covering everything, and tied to one of the Godawful kitchen chairs, judging by the fact that she could not feel her backside.

Just then, somebody clunked into the room through the doorway behind her and came to stand in front of her. _Oh fuck, _was all her mind could churn out in response to the clown mask covering his face.

"Back in the land of the living, eh?" he jeered.

She found her voice then and answered in a nonchalant manner, as she would in any stressful situation. "Hope I wasn't snoring."

The thug snorted. "You won't be talking like that later."

She nodded slowly. "I'm sure."

"Wouldn't be so cocky either, since you're tied to a chair," he added. _Shocking observation skills there_, her inner monologue chipped in.

"In my own home, I know! Couldn't rent out an ominous warehouse to hold me hostage in then?" she baited him in an attempt to find out just what was going on.

"It's not _you_ he wants," the thug shot back at her.

"_He_? So you _do_ have a ringleader! And where, pray tell, is the bastard 'mastermind' of this little gag? Hmm?" she questioned in a heated manner, struggling against her restraints. "Fucking wannabes, breaking into my home, all fakes," she muttered, ensuring it was loud enough for him to hear.

"Do you have any idea who you're talking about?" the thug questioned, shaking her by the shoulders. Danny shrugged, even though she had more than just an 'idea'. He became increasingly agitated by her apparent lack of knowledge. "He is the Harlequin of Hate, he is the Ace of Knaves." She shot him another blank look. "He is the Joker!"

"Koo-koo ka-choo," Danny spat, fed up with hearing the thug's voice. _As if the clown masks weren't a dead giveaway. Come on, where's the guy playing 'The Joker'... bet he's short, fat, and has paid no attention to detail,_ she thought as she glared at him.

A cackle came from the doorway behind her and the thug moved out of her line of vision, which remained fixed on a burn mark on the wall which she had made with a cigarette one drunken night. "That was good." A mass of purple and green swaggered into her peripheral vision. "But I _hated_ The Beatles!" He disappeared from sight, only to reappear at the other side of the room; how he managed to miss all the creaky floorboards was beyond her. Then, he moved directly in front of her and she saw the painted face, the scars which were most definitely _not_ fake, and the maniacal gleam in his eyes. "Real enough for ya?" Her nerves got the better of her then and, ignoring his question, she began to jabber.

"You know, I didn't like The Beatles either until I saw this movie about..." _What the Hell am I saying? Shut up! Stop it!_ her mind screamed as the Joker moved into her line of sight, an amused smile stretching out his marred face. "...And Mr Kite – you'd like him – is _fan_tastic, and there are riots... and a bomb! And blue people! And... I... should... stop now?" She didn't know why she said it as a question, and so settled for staring at the floor as she wrung her hands behind her back and worried her bottom lip with her teeth.

"You seem _uneasy_... is it the scars?" She had no choice but to look at him as he lowered himself to her level, crouching before her. It wasn't that she was unsure what to say, more unsure how she should word it. "Speak," he barked before returning to what she surmised he called his 'polite tone', "I won't cut your tongue out," he assured her, patting her knee, "_yet_." He cackled again at his own words and Danny fought the urge to roll her eyes.

She took a breath. "In comparison to having been jumped in my own home," she began, "knocked out, bound to one of the most uncomfortable chairs in the entire house and left alone for hours – most probably concussed – your scars are the least of my problems."

"Well, isn't that _just_ dandy," he muttered as he stood and moved behind her. She heard the sound of a switchblade opening. _Well, this isn't exactly how I envisioned my death,_ she considered, _I'd have liked something a little more public and shocking. A nice controversial and dramatic death, that's all I ask for, but no. No. I have a psychotic clown with a penchant for knives about to slit my throat with a freaking switchblade. In my own home, for Christ's sake._ She fought to stay calm and keep her breathing regular, although her inner monologue was becoming more desperate. _I have a jewel encrusted dagger somewhere, it'd add a sense of drama. A sacrifice! For the greater good! I wonder if he'd–_ Danny stopped her train of thought at the unmistakeable feeling of cool metal against her skin. _Why couldn't he just throw me under a bus?_ She felt the blade move away then heard a swoosh as it arced through the air, and she felt the tension in her shoulders dissipate suddenly as the ties around her wrists were slashed. _Wha?_ her befuddled mind struggled to make sense of just why the Joker had decided to spare her; surely she was in his way? Not that she was ungrateful that her blood had remained where it should be, rather than staining the dirty wooden floorboards.

"Don't just _sit_ there!" His amused voice permeated her thoughts which were rushing through her mind at a mile a minute and gaining speed. Danny suddenly returned to reality and untied her feet from the legs of the chair before standing and stretching. When she turned to face the doorway he was already gone. Since she was alone Danny contemplated throwing herself out of one of the windows. After weighing up her chances of making a quick getaway with two broken ankles against having coffee with the Joker she exited the room and descended the marble staircase, making a beeline for the kitchen. He stood, waiting, in the doorway and moved aside as she entered the room. Two steaming mugs of black coffee sat on the kitchen table, the remaining two chairs sat facing each other and, with a broad gesture, he indicated she should sit. She did. "Leave," he instructed the two masked men who had been hovering around the refrigerator. They did. In her silence she observed his authority over men more than capable of beating the living daylights out of him, how they just skittered away from him. She had to admit he certainly had a presence about him. He sat down in the chair opposite her. "_So_," he began, drawing out the word, giving her an almost pained smile before leaning forward in his seat and continuing, "this is the part where you tell me everything," he gave a broad gesture to the room they were in with his gloved hands, "about this.. _interesting_ place of yours."

"What makes you think I have anything to say to you?" she questioned defensively.

He gave a theatrical grimace then loosened up and suddenly became quite animated as he spoke. "Come on! None of that 'I'd sooner die!' crap, _puh-lease_. Give me something to work with here, Sweets."

"Sorry, I'm not much of a conversationalist," she shot back.

"Now, now," he began in a scolding tone, wagging a gloved finger at her, "don't be boring." His face suddenly became serious. "I have no use for bores... except as target practice," he considered. She remained silent and picked up her coffee, only to find it too hot to drink, and put it back down on the table. His eyes darted around the kitchen and he fidgeted on his chair, his tongue causing his cheek to bulge slightly as he traced the scars on the inside of his mouth. She felt herself becoming increasingly irritated by the awkwardness of the situation and got out of her seat, moving over to the counter. "Ah, ah, ah!" he called, darting forward and grabbing her by the elbow and the back of her neck. Still she extended her arm and reached into the breadbin. She paused for a moment and turned her head to look at him as well as she could given their awkward position.

"You think I'm going to try and kill you with a blunt bread knife?" she queried, knowing full well there was no knife in the breadbin. _Hell, I don't even keep bread in there._

"Aren't you?" he questioned playfully, though she knew he was not taking any chances when he grabbed her.

"Uh, no," she replied, bringing her hand out of the breadbin to show him the packet of cigarettes and her lighter, which he snatched.

Still holding her elbow, he swung her around until she crashed back into her seat, the back of her head smacked painfully into the wall behind her. He tossed the lighter, a Zippo, back to her after studying it momentarily, then sat at the table once more. This time he took his switchblade from his pocket and set it on the table in front of him, she felt her blood run cold as she stared at the razor-sharp blade glinting in the afternoon light. "No more funny business."

"Oh, ha ha." Danny smirked at him as she took a cigarette from the packet and lit up.

"Bad habit, that," he commented, pointing at the cigarette as though it offended him.

"I know," she retorted before offering the box. "Want one?"

"Naturally," he replied with an impish grin, taking a cigarette for himself and lighting it. He didn't hand the Zippo back though, just kept lighting it and extinguishing the flame as he smoked. "So," he began, only to stop.

"'So' what?" she questioned irritably, taking another drag of her cigarette.

"Since I'll be here for a while..."

Her stomach dropped, and she was certain all colour drained from her face at his words, though he said nothing more on the subject. "Wh-what do you mean, a while?"

"Well, you're _evidently_ not using most of the space you have here... and I need a place to set up home for an undisclosed period of time," he explained flippantly.

"You? Live... here?" She almost dropped her cigarette.

"Yeah, Sweets. I like it here. Long driveway... lotsa trees around for privacy... big rooms. Not much carpet – easier to clean." She didn't bother questioning what would need cleaning up and abruptly stopped herself thinking about it. His voice took on a more serious tone as he continued, "And nothing you do or say is going to stop me staying." He leaned back in his seat and took a drag from his cigarette, the permanent smile on his face daring her to try and deter him from remaining in her home.

"Next door is bigger, and they have a gym and a pool," she suggested. He cackled maniacally at her and banged his hand on the tabletop.

"You are brilliant!" he half-shouted as he calmed down, "oh, that was good. Yeah, you see _they_ is more than one to deal with. Here, there's just _you_." He pointed at her, his dark eyes boring into her own blue-grey ones. She tore her eyes away from his stare and studied the kitchen floor. "So, are you going to tell me about this place and yourself, or am I going to have to get the boys in to rough you up a little? Hmm?"

Keeping her eyes fixed to the floor, she heaved a sigh before giving in to his demands, knowing that if she wanted to stay alive she would have to comply. "My family has lived in this house since it was built around one-hundred years ago; one of my ancestors had a business in the oil industry and had this place built to his specification, no expenses spared. It's been changed over the years, but most of the original–" The Joker interrupted her with a loud snore and she looked at him.

"Boring!" he exclaimed. "Tell me about the house _now_. Why do you leave it empty?"

She stubbed out her cigarette and lit up another. "Oh, now? My parents moved away years ago leaving me with the place to myself. I could downsize, but that'd mean the house wouldn't be in the family anymore. Any self-respecting Keyes knows about this house; it's our history." She paused, he nodded for her to continue. "I live in the basement for the most part. When I get bored there I go up to the attic. Aside from the kitchen and the living room on this floor I don't use the rest of the house. I used to have friends living here who took the rooms upstairs and helped with living costs, but they've since moved out into their own places with their respective partners or _whatever_."

"Oooh, do I hear a hint of jealousy?" His eyes flashed excitedly and his tongue ran around the insides of his cheeks with added fervour.

"No, I just have a bad track record." _And why did I have to go and mention that?_ She mentally kicked herself.

Apparently he didn't pay her response any attention as he changed the subject back again. "Alright. _House._ You're not using it." She opened her mouth to protest. "Not _all_ of it. Close it, you'll catch flies." She closed her mouth. "I propose a... deal." He held up a hand to stall any comments of hers and considered his words before continuing. "I stay here with my men. We take upstairs. _You_... you stay in the basement. Ground floor is no man's land." He rose from his seat and began to pace around, thinking his proposal over.

"What about the attic?" she asked.

"I call the attic, Sweets. What _is_ your name anyhow?"

"Danny," she answered. "But I live up there too."

"_Danny Keyes_." He silently mouthed her name a couple of times as he wandered around the room. "I like it. Has a real _ring_ to it!" He cackled and flopped back down into the kitchen chair. "And no, you don't live up there anymore."

"But–"

"Look," he leaned forward in his seat and stared at her as he spoke, "you can stay here, live in your basement, drink coffee in your kitchen... _whatever_. Or you can leave, which means I'd have to follow you and kill you." He gestured to the knife on the table for emphasis, silently informing her that were she to leave her death would not be a quick one. Her defeat must have shown in her eyes as he grinned at her. "I'm so glad you see things my way, Danny-boy." His gaze moved to the doorway behind her. "Ah, Number One, what is it?"

"Uh, the others are on their way, Boss." The thug informed him dutifully.

"Great." The Joker nodded. "Go and move the gear upstairs... and get some more furniture from... wherever." The thug nodded and left.

"You can go now," he informed her in a flat voice. She stood from her seat, took her cigarettes and coffee and made her way out of the kitchen. "Oh, and _Danny-boy_?" She stopped in the doorway and gave him a questioning look. "_Unfortunately_ I know my parentage very well." At her confused expression he elaborated. "I'm no bastard." He pursed his lips, thinking of what to say next. "But I _am_ a mastermind," he purred, "you were right about that."

Seeing that the front door was now guarded by one of the Joker's masked thugs she made her way to the basement door underneath the staircases in the lobby, stopping to try the phone only to find it was disconnected. _Should've known_. Upon entering the basement she closed and locked the door before descending the stairs and throwing herself on to the nearest sofa. "This is not my life," she muttered to herself, running her hands through her messy hair in frustration. _What can I do?_ she asked herself, feeling her throat constrict and the prickling sensation behind her eyes that signalled the arrival of tears.

* * *

Upstairs the Joker addressed his men, who sat around the dining room table; some had been given errands to run, others had things to do around the house. "Welcome home boys!"


End file.
